Silence, then, ‘Amanda . . . Mandy.’ She could smile politely when she wanted to.
‘Well, thank you for the sandwiches and tea, Lorenzo. They’re going to save my life.’ Cheese and tomato, and corned beef and tomato – Officers’ Mess style: no crusts.
‘Hardly, sir. Have you anything in the kitbag that needs washing?’
‘Most of it, probably.’
‘I’ll take it with me; if you have time to try on your new issue tonight, I’ll get the alterations you need done before you leave. You’ll know that your flight was put back, and you are booked in here for four days. They’ll want you to sign in to the Mess.’
‘No ruddy fear. I won’t go near the place. I never asked to be an officer in the first place. I still think it was a joke that they played on someone else.’ She laughed. A little whinnying sound. ‘We can look at the clothes in the morning, if you like.’
‘Fine, sir. It’s our job to see that you’re properly turned out, if you understand?’
‘You mean that you get a bollocking if I look a shambles?’ I remembered Lucy’s description of me.
‘I might, sir.’
‘I’d better pull my socks up then.’
I still had that Communist Party card in my pocket. It was mine, although it wasn’t in my real name. I wondered how many other Commies had a servant as pretty as mine. I read a Nigel Balchin novel for a couple of hours: his hero was an awkward cuss like me. Then I slept until breakfast, to be awoken by Lorenzo with a cup of tea. Someone must have spirited the tray of empties away during the night, but I hadn’t heard a thing. It was a brand-new world.
Even the bath and shower rooms were centrally heated. After I washed, I opened my hanging cupboard, and couldn’t believe what I was looking at. I actually counted the clothes, like a schoolboy counting up his collection of Dinky Toys: formal mess kit, a full set of walking-out blues, two working blues and a greatcoat . . . and everything to go with them. Shoes, and boots (flying) . . . and two sets of KDs, including shorts that fell below my knees. I’d need a lorry to move my bloody wardrobe around with.
‘What will they expect me to wear today?’ I asked Lorenzo.
‘A working set; just like when you were a sergeant. It hasn’t changed that much.’
It hadn’t taken her long to find that out. ‘Both jackets will need to be taken in, and the greatcoat’s too long. I’ll get them done.’
‘I tried on the shorts – I look like something from a Beau Geste film. Could you get someone to turn them up an inch or two?’
‘Yes, but not too much. You won’t want your new station commander getting upset. Have you had any breakfast yet, sir?’
‘No.’ I didn’t meet her eye.
‘Why don’t you come along to the galley? Frances and I usually have a fry-up and a smoke around this time, after we’ve got our officers away . . . unless the SAC is around.’
‘Frances?’
‘Aircraftwoman Francis, sir. Frances Francis. She still can’t work out if that’s amusing or cruel.’
‘Lead on Macduff.’
As I followed her trim figure along the corridor to a small kitchen, she looked back over her shoulder and asked me, ‘Did you know that’s a common misquotation, sir?’
‘I don’t even know where it comes from.’
‘Macbeth. It’s actually “lay on, Macduff” . . .’
‘Is that important?’
‘It was to Macbeth. It was the last thing he said before Macduff killed him!’ Then we were at the galley. The woman already sitting in it was plain and lanky. She had a wide mouth and a great embarrassed smile, and tried to get up.
Lorenzo pushed her back into her chair, saying, ‘Frances this is Charlie.’ To me she said, ‘This is our place. You can be Charlie here if you like, but not outside.’
Bacon sarnies, of course: the service ran on them. Fresh doorsteps of bread, a bucket of butter, and bacon salty enough to preserve your tongue while it was still wriggling. On the radio they played a record of Billie Holiday singing along to Lester Young with the Count Basie Orchestra. Time rolled back: I remembered the RAF girls I had known at Bawne during the war, and wondered if I would do better with women if I simply kept to my own kind. Within minutes I felt at home, relaxed and happy.
What had I told Elaine weeks ago? I could cope with that.
I couldn’t get away with it for ever.
‘Mr Bassett, is it?’ This was after a rap on my door. A rather neat but otherwise unmemorable warrant officer stood there. I was lying on my bed reading a rather horny Hank Janson paperback I’d filched from one of the empty rooms. I stood up – reluctantly.
‘Yes, WO. Can I help you?’
‘Thought it might be the other way round, sir. I’m the SWO. New arrivals usually look me up for a bit of a brief.’ Ah. He’d called me sir, but it was obvious which of us was really in command, and it wasn’t me. In his heart, even the commanding officer of a RAF station knows that the station warrant officer is the person really in charge.
‘I didn’t think it worth it, WO. I expected to ship out today.’
‘But you’re stuck here for a few days instead – I take it that someone’s told you? Mind if I come in and sit down, sir?’
‘Help yourself.’ He shut the door behind him, and sat at the desk. I sat on the bed and picked up my pipe. I said, ‘Smoke, if you like.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ It got us through the next minute. He offered me a fag from a packet of Black Cat, but I shook my head and lit my pipe. ‘Will you be going off-station, sir?’
‘No.
